It was always the same with James P.

A trip in the hallway. A “coincidental” spill of ink over your essay. A flying note in class that read “You snore like a Hippogriff.” Laughter followed him like a cape, and somehow, you were always the punchline.

You told yourself you hated him. His smug smile, his too-perfect hair, the way he winked every time he said something idiotic. You even tried hexing him once—he dodged, laughed, and winked again.

But one evening, you ended up alone in the Gryffindor common room. Everyone else was at dinner, and James… well, James had forgotten something. You were about to leave when a leather notebook fell out of his bag. You shouldn't have opened it.

But curiosity wins when you're used to being the butt of the joke.

You flipped through messy scrawls, Quidditch plays, dumb doodles—until you saw your name.

“They looked annoyed today. Again. Obviously. Why do I keep messing this up?”

“Every time I try to be funny, it comes out wrong. I don’t want to scare them off.”

“They’re brilliant. I wish I could tell them. I wish I could say something real.”

Your hands trembled. You closed the notebook. Just as the door creaked.

James stood there, frozen. His eyes dropped to the journal in your hand. And for the first time ever… he wasn’t smirking.

—“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he mumbled.